Because someone at the precinct might recognize them, Eve pushed Dean away and retreated into the private room. "Dean, I'll have my best friend pick me up."

"Okay, call me if you need anything." Dean nodded noncommittally and left alone.

「Downstairs.」

Dean ran into an old acquaintance, Hawk. Hawk was directing his men to cordon off a few trash cans with police tape. A number of local residents out for a walk were watching from a distance, and Dean listened to their murmured discussions. It seemed a homeless man rummaging through these trash cans had found a severed hand.

A severed hand?

Dean's heart stirred as he recalled the two FBI agents he had met earlier. They seemed to be tracking a cannibalistic serial killer and had come to Los Angeles for that purpose. He still had Senior Agent Merck's business card in his pocket. If this really is the work of that cannibal, their efficiency is impressive. They've committed another crime so quickly.

After thinking it over, Dean headed towards the bald Hawk.

Hawk was on the phone, calling the on-duty forensics officer. Seeing Dean, he looked surprised. After Dean briefly explained the situation, Hawk hung up and exclaimed, "Dean, you were nearby?"

"Heard the Chinese food here was good, so I came to try it after work. Did I overhear pedestrians saying a severed hand was found here?"

"Yes!" Hawk led Dean to a trash can, pointing to something wrapped in a plastic bag. "The severed hand is in here. The person who found it was a homeless man. He was scared out of his wits, so I had my guys take him to get something to eat."

Dean pulled a pair of disposable gloves he always carried from his pocket, put them on, and began to examine the contents. The plastic bag was black and opaque. Its edges were clean, with no visible bloodstains. Upon opening it, a blackish-purple hand appeared before them.

This discoloration was due to blood coagulation after death, with the associated pooling in exposed extremities resulting in a bruised appearance, meaning the owner of the hand had been dead for more than twenty-four hours before dismemberment.

The hand was severed at the wrist. It was rough and thick—likely a man's—with an uneven cut. The blood was dark red, and the edges were jagged, showing signs of gnawing by some unknown creature.

Beyond that, the thumb was reduced to white bone. All the flesh was gone, not a trace of blood remaining, but there were some symmetrical gray marks.

Dean touched his own teeth and found they matched the indentations. These gray marks are likely bite marks.

If this is indeed the work of a cannibalistic deviant, they must have held the hand and gnawed on it with relish, like a greedy child devouring a chicken foot. The key is that the marks are very regular, which means the perpetrator didn't experience any nausea that would interrupt them from chewing on the fingers. Under normal circumstances, humans have both physiological and psychological reactions to consuming the flesh of their own kind, usually manifesting as vomiting. Only someone accustomed to it could eat all the flesh off a thumb as if it were ordinary food, without any discomfort.

This confirmed it. This is a case of cannibalism!

Why is it that the closer we get to Saul Aston taking power, the more trouble Los Angeles seems to find itself in? First, Sarah nearly triggered a protest by the Black community. Now, a cannibalistic psychopath from another state has shown up. This kind of person might not have a high body count, but their ability to incite panic is significant. People have an instinctive fear of such deviants. And fear is contagious. Eventually, it will create immense public pressure on the police. And of all the rotten luck, this hand shows up in the Fourth Squad's jurisdiction. Damn it all!

Noting the troubled look on Dean's face, Hawk realized something was wrong. "Dean, is this case a big hassle?"

"Cannibalism, what do you think?" Dean retorted.

Hawk's pupils constricted as he grasped the gravity of the situation and cursed, "Fuck! With all the cheap fried chicken around, why eat people? Why does this kind of freak show up in my patrol zone!"

"Don't panic," Dean said, taking out the FBI agent's business card. "We have a scapegoat this time. This killer fled to Los Angeles to evade an FBI manhunt. Contact your superior and explain the situation. I'll contact the FBI. We don't need to rush into this."

A deviant capable of evading the FBI across state lines is definitely no amateur. I can't crack every case. Skill is important in this line of work, but luck is even more so. Besides, as long as I'm involved, I'll get Experience Points. My first instinct is to find a scapegoat.

Hawk understood the wisdom of taking good advice to stay out of trouble, so he immediately contacted his superior. Dean also called the number on the business card, belonging to Senior Agent Merck.

Twenty minutes later, the on-duty personnel from the forensics department still hadn't arrived, but Merck and his young partner had already rushed over.

"Inspector Dean, we meet again," Merck said politely, shaking Dean's hand. "May I ask what the situation is here?"

"Someone discovered a severed hand. Upon my inspection, I found what appear to be human bite marks on it. Based on the wound analysis, the owner of this hand was likely already dead before it was severed, which explains the blackish-purple discoloration." After speaking, Dean led them to examine the severed hand.

After a quick inspection, the young agent said with some confusion, "Merck, this doesn't seem to match the Demon's usual M.O. Could it be one of his followers?"

The middle-aged agent, Merck, first nodded, then shook his head. "It should be him. Elegance is a luxury afforded by circumstance. You know that thanks to our relentless pressure, he hasn't 'dined' in nearly half a month. So, a cruder meal doesn't automatically rule out the Demon."

"The Demon you're referring to... is that the cannibal you're Tracking?" Dean interjected.

Merck didn't speak. The young agent—the one Lawrence had slapped previously—seized the chance to vent his frustration. "This is an FBI case. You're not authorized to know these details. Understand, Inspector?"

The previous humiliation had deeply wounded the young man. Now, with so many patrol officers present, he didn't believe Dean would dare lay a hand on them again. He had no idea.

Dean stepped back with a smile and said to Hawk and the other patrol officers, "Guys, did you all hear that?"

Hawk grinned as well. "Of course, we heard. This is an FBI case; we aren't qualified to interfere. However, to maintain the peace in Los Angeles, we're still willing to offer whatever help we can."

The young agent's expression stiffened. Damn it, I've been tricked! Merck's face darkened as well.

He glared at his partner and apologized to Dean. "I'm sorry, my colleague is new to the job and doesn't know how to speak properly. Please don't take offense, Inspector Dean. Regardless, this crime occurred in Los Angeles, and we definitely need your assistance to catch the Demon."

"Of course, we can help." Dean crouched down, pointing to the severed hand. "I don't know the specific M.O. of this 'Demon' you're talking about, but this hand tells us a lot."

"First, the bones at the sever point are smooth. This indicates the perpetrator used a sharp tool. They cut the hand off cleanly at the wrist joint in one go. There are bite marks on the flesh around the cut, which likely points to the perpetrator's eating habits—similar to how one might instinctively suck their fingers after eating something particularly flavorful."

"Second, the fleshiest part of the palm, the thenar eminence, is undoubtedly tougher. The perpetrator only consumed the flesh from the victim's thumb. This suggests a meticulous order to their 'dining,' a habit often found in individuals from well-educated backgrounds."

"Third, the flesh on the thumb was eaten completely clean, not even a shred of meat fibre remaining. This is often seen in people who suffered severe hunger in childhood; it's a type of psychological compulsion developed from a young age. Otherwise, no matter how deranged, it would be very difficult to eat uncooked flesh so thoroughly."

His analysis of these three points concluded. Dean looked at the astonished Merck and said calmly, "Agent Merck, does your Demon fit this profile? One with such... elegant, yet obsessive, dining habits?"

Merck nodded hesitantly. "Yes. Actually, we only know his codename. He only appears before his followers, his face obscured by long hair and a thick beard. He induces mentally unstable individuals to 'willingly offer themselves' and propagates his twisted belief in cannibalism. That's why we haven't been able to apprehend him."

The young agent, however, looked skeptically at Dean. "Stop putting on an act. It's just a severed hand. How could you deduce so much? Did you ask around about the Demon after we met last time and just fit your 'analysis' to what you learned?"

Merck remained silent. Clearly, he harbored similar doubts. He had only witnessed such analytical prowess in a few experts at FBI headquarters. Even though Dean had become an Inspector at such a young age, Merck still found his abilities suspect.

Dean glanced at the young agent and sneered. "Do I need to explain myself to a nobody like you?"

"You..."

SLAP! Dean shook his hand, looking at the 'small fry' who had been knocked to the ground. He then smiled at Merck. "Sorry, my manners aren't the best. When an annoying fly buzzes around me, I can't help but want to swat it."

Merck looked at Dean, his expression unreadable. "But he's FBI. You went too far!"

"But you seem to forget, this is our turf!" Dean's expression also darkened. "We're not your subordinates. We're assisting you out of a sense of duty. Yet your idiotic partner keeps buzzing around me like a fly. The only reason I didn't swat him dead is because he's wearing an FBI badge!"

This speech not only stirred Hawk's heart but also filled the surrounding patrol officers' eyes with admiration as they looked at Dean. Despite the harsh words, ordinary officers and detectives wouldn't typically assault an FBI agent in public. Hitting an agent wasn't just hitting the individual; it was a slap in the face to the FBI's authority.

Seeing the tense atmosphere, Dean abruptly changed the subject. "But you're right, Merck. Your partner is young and still learning how to talk to people. Consider that slap my selfless contribution to his personal growth. I forgive him."

"Now, let's discuss the case. I have to attend the new mayor's banquet in a couple of days, so I don't have much time to assist you."

Upon hearing about the new mayor's banquet, Merck's pupils contracted. A fawning smile—like a blooming chrysanthemum—spread across his previously unreadable face. "Inspector Dean, you're right. To prevent further innocent citizens from being victimized, let's find a place to sit down and thoroughly discuss the information we have on the 'Demon.'"

Dean's claim can be verified later. Backing down now would, at worst, cost a little pride. But if he's telling the truth, we'll be the ones at a disadvantage on Los Angeles turf. I'm not young and rash like my partner. This game isn't just about constant conflict. It's not worth taking a loss, or even risking my life, over a momentary spat.

Seeing Merck see reason, Dean smiled and nodded. The two left, chatting and laughing, leaving the young agent still sitting on the ground, dumbfounded. He watched Merck walk away, utterly clueless about what had just transpired.

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